


Bitter candy - Nothing was beautiful and everything hurt

by TheGracefulBlueCat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asperger's Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John, Don't copy to another site, Drugs, Flashbacks, Gen, Graphic Description, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD Sherlock, Pain, Pain Management, Triggers, asd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-24 01:41:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30064716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGracefulBlueCat/pseuds/TheGracefulBlueCat
Summary: The boys are stranded in a dark forest.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 52





	Bitter candy - Nothing was beautiful and everything hurt

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Sgam76 for her medical advice and beta-ing. All remaining inaccuracies and grammar mistakes are totally my fault.

**"Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt"** is from Kurt Vonnegut's novel _Slaughterhouse-Five_ (1969)

* * *

"Joh…" Sherlock's voice trails off, he has just run out of breath.

"Sherlock! Don't move!... Just lie still. Hang on," John's voice is raspy.

Things have slowed down. Everything is happening in slow motion. Sherlock desperately tries to breathe.

Something seems to have…

He has breathed in some sort of rubble. There's sand in his mouth, the bright grey taste is adding to his distress.

The pain is so intense, he has trouble breathing.

Coughing hurts even more.

His awareness drowns in pain.

"Shit! Come on, Sherlock!" John grunts.

Hands prodding his back, hands everywhere.

"Does your back hurt?"

The pain is so horrible, he can't even sense where it comes from.

"Come on, mate, I need to know if you hurt your back. Focus!"

He tries, it takes a ridiculous amount of concentration.

No, maybe the pain is in his leg and shoulder and… leg?

"Hhno," it is more a grunt than actual speech, he's not capable of forming words.

More touches on his back, sneaking under the coat, then on his neck. John seems to gently check every single vertebrae one by one, it takes ages. The touch grounds him a bit, allows him to focus.

It takes quite a bit of time until he finally remembers what happened. They were following a group of three men to a water treatment plant. Sherlock suspected they would somehow try to contaminate London's water supplies. Before they managed to break into the unmanned facility, the perpetrators discovered him and John - and attacked. They had tried to hinder them to escape into the woods but hand to hand combat ensued. The last thing Sherlock remembers is tumbling down a steep slope and into a ravine.

He tries to roll off his arm, because it hurts.

Suddenly, the close up of the gravel path vanishes from his field of vision and with a disturbing amount of nausea it is replaced with a blob of pink-ochre mist. He knows the bright colours are not really there, his senses are acting up. The stimulation of one sensory pathway causes an involuntary affect in another one. He has experienced that before, intense sensations spill over from one of his senses to another, kicking it into action. The pain affects his vision.

He is turned onto his back and that brings an entire new spectrum of additional agony. He closes his eyes but the colours roam behind his closed lids.

Too much! Too much!

His body screams involuntary. The misery is hot and overwhelming and it kick-starts intense nausea.

"Shit. I know, I know… I'm sorry," John gasps.

Sherlock's eyes are open only a fraction, all he sees are distorted snippets of his environment.

"I need you to keep breathing," John urges. "Don't hold your breath."

Sherlock knows he is badly wounded. His ribcage feels as if something is pressing down on it.

His pelvis is moved and the new spike of pain takes his breath away. He can't breathe.

There is no air, he can't suck in the oxygen he desperately needs. His breath seems to have frozen solid in his lungs. The anguish is disturbingly sharp and yellow.

It hurts so much he loses contact to reality.

Something is over his lips, on his face.

Touches…

Everywhere.

His ribcage expands passively. The air feels warm and the sweet intake of oxygen is heady.

"Fuck! Sherlock, I need you to fucking breathe!"

John is angry.

What has he done?

He takes a stuttering breath and it is like working against some kind of resistance.

"Good. Keep breathing!" John gasps.

He takes another breath and wishes he could not do that again for just a bit.

Something starts to move his legs. He knows it's John. The breath he is taking is pushed out of his lungs by the gasp he produces when the pain flares.

"…shi'," he breathes.

"Oh god! So good to have you with me," John mumbles, leaning into his view. His voice filled with stunned tears. "Relax, this was the worst part for the time being." John grabs his hand and squeezes it carefully. Sherlock is only half aware at that point.

John's hands touch his face, wipe away the liquid that is seeping out of his eyes. "Keep breathing… keep breathing, mate. You hear me?"

Sherlock tries to nod, but it worsens the discomfort. He can't see or hear properly because pain is so bad. Only snippets of reality invade the thick fog his mind is wrapped in.

"I need to return to the car to get some equipment and call for help. While I do that, you need to keep breathing. Can you do that?"

When he doesn't answer, John yells at him, begs him to pay attention. It's unsettling. Faint memories of screams in combination with intense pain pass by his inner eye. A surprisingly clear thought passes his mind: he's in danger of dissociating.

"Yeahhh," he moans, although unsure if he could manage.

"I know it hurts. I'll be back in a minute. Don't do anything stupid! Stay awake!" John orders.

He's back before Sherlock has even processed the words.

Has he even left?

"Hey mate, I am sorry, but we have to get you back to the car. I brought it as close as possible. Phones are both out of order. But first, I have to reduce your dislocated knee and immobilize your arm. Your clavicle is broken…" John trails off. "Before I try anything, I will give you some painkillers. Found a fentanyl lollipop I had in my emergency kit. I am going to put it in your mouth."

Fentanyl? … Not good… but probably better than this level of all-consuming agony. Processing everything John has said it difficult. He can't think and he is overwhelmed and he wants it to end.

His head is tilted backwards and his mouth opens on it's own. John's hands are on his chin and his forehead.

His jaw is gently pried open and something slides into his mouth. The foreign object lodges between his right molars and the inside of his cheek.

"It will only take a few minutes until it works. It'll make you drowsy, don't be alarmed. You won't be in so much pain any longer. Just allow it to do it's job. We'll be safe in no time. I've got you. Shhhh…"

It feels invasive and when John moves the thing around in his mouth, then the taste hits him.

Artificial berry taste… with a sharp chemical off-taste.

He tries to turn his head away but it is held tight.

The taste… he knows that specific taste, he has experienced it before and it immediately shoves him into panic mode.

_He is on the ground, a concrete road under him. People are crowding him, people in uniforms; they are all talking across each other._

_Someone is yelling orders._

_The pale full moon is high above him in the morning sky._

_He's in pain. It is so bad, he can't think straight._

_Several men in fatigues are touching him and it's making his distress so much worse. The staggering noise grates on his ability to think._

_Someone addresses him in German, Sherlock barely notices the man is wearing civilian clothes._

_Right, he is in Germany. Although most Germans speak good English, when they find someone wounded at a military barrack's rear gate they would of course first address the person in German._

_English and German mix in a wild exchange of people reporting they had found him bleeding and unconscious. A dog is barking and the loudness makes him flinch, which brings tears of pain to his eyes. He can't see properly._

_"Können Sie mich hören?"_

_"Was ist passiert?"_

_"Medics on their way."_

_After a few futile attempts he manages to remember why he is where he is._

_He was investigating the Trepoff case. The man was suspected to have killed his wife and Sherlock had been on Trepoff's mate's heels trying to find a lead. That was until he was ambushed by a stranger, who had clocked him and brought him to a residential house's cellar. The bulldog faced man was a brute and his stupid 'girlfriend' a sadist. The couple and two minions had tortured him to find out why he was in their backyard. They were probably unrelated to the case but must have several skeletons in their closet to overreact to him sneaking around._

_He ended up in their captivity for most of the night and only escaped after they had dislocated his elbow and drilled deep holes into two of his molars trying to make him confess why he was there._

_The fact that they had a perfectly equipped torture chamber including a dentist chair in their basement still astounded him._

_What were the chances to run into people like that?_

_Beaten and bloody, Sherlock somehow managed to escape them - and discovered a large secret drug lab on his way out. Outside the house, he found himself in the middle of nowhere, out in the countryside._

_He slogged along down an endless road, hoping to stop a passing car or find a telephone booth or anyone really who could offer help, because he was aware he needed medical attention and that his ability to walk was rapidly decreasing._

_The pain from his mouth was debilitating, it blurred his vision. He had thrown up at least twice when he finally spotted a large signpost that marked the access road for a British military base._

_Military was good. Familiar. He could work with that. And the reminder of John made it even more trustworthy. Stupid sentiment._

_He just hoped it wasn't one of the recently abandoned barracks. The British military was in the process of leaving Germany._

_He couldn't remember how he had managed to make it down the access road, only his frustration when he found there was no guard at the gate. This meant it was either deserted or not the main gate. The daunting realisation was the last he remembered._

_"Nein, nein, nicht bewegen!"_

_The hands are pinning him down._

_More voices. More questions but the pain is so intense, it robs him of his speech._

_Then it becomes even worse when they try to roll him onto his back._

_He screams._

_"Shit, his arm!"_

_He must have blacked out because the next thing he know is something is in his mouth. A disgusting artificial taste._

_What the hell where they doing?_

_The foreign object is moved around, rubs against the inside of his cheek… and then the agonising sensations explode._

_He switches into overload mode. Like a wild animal, he tries to free himself. And he screams until he mercifully blacks out._

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback makes my day :)


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